Live To Fight Again
by Lanoire
Summary: (Nooo idea what this should be rated) What if the barricade hadn't fallen? Would the insurrection truly start a new world? -Complete!-
1. Surviving Insurrections

Disclaimer: The Friends of the ABC and whatnot belong to Victor Hugo, while their relations belong to me. 

Notes: There. I did it. I've written a Les Mis fic that more than a little short nothing. And it's not very good. I'm sure this has been done seven zillion times. x___x

No one was sure exactly when the battle turned. For the longest time, it seemed as they were losing, and all would die. Then, suddenly, they... weren't. Suddenly, the gunfire ceased and the captain of the National Guard could be heard bellowing from the other side of the barricade.

 "Cease fire! Retreat!" 

There was the stomping of feet as they marched away, getting quieter and quieter as they headed away from the barricade. All was silent on the barricade, as though no one could even comprehend what had just happened. Then, Courfeyrac raised the arm that Combeferre wasn't trying to remove three bullets from into the air triumphantly. He took the handkerchief Combeferre had given him to bite if it got too painful from his mouth and let out a cheer. 

  "Hush," Combeferre scolded, but he was drowned out by the sudden eruption of cheering from the barricade. Even stern Enjolras's cheeks were flushed with what one might dare to call pleasure. The silence before the cheering had managed to wake Grantaire, who stumbled out of the Corinth and into the street. 

  "What has happened?" he asked, leaning against the doorway for support.

   "We have won!" Feuilly replied, having to shout to be heard. Yes, the people, the underdogs, the group of students and workers armed with cast-off weapons, had won. But at what price? Inside on a table, an old man who had nothing left to live for lay dead. Beside him, a little boy who had his whole life ahead of him was dead as well. Outside, on the other side of the barricade, dead guards were splayed out, their guns and ammunition stolen. Among them, a blond boy who couldn't be older than seventeen was slumped against the wall, shot through the chest. 

  Inside the barricade, dead were scattered over the floors and the side of the barricade. A man, older than the other students, laid half on and half off of the barricade. A girl with her shirt torn open and a hole through her chest and hand smiled peacefully into eternity. A student farther from the barricade had been shot through the neck and stomach with his handkerchief still clutched in his fist. A man was dead in a doorway. Boys at the very peak of their youth lay sprawled on the sidewalk. A little gamin lay dead outside the barricade, on the street. Some had written identification and letters to lovers that would serve as their final farewell. They had won. But at what price? 

  The cheering gradually died away as people began to recognize the dead around them, and to fully realize that they were gone, as they had been unable to do in the midst of fighting. The tall, pale, thin, fan maker Feuilly put a gentle hand on a crouching student whose bald head made him look older than he was.

  "Bossuet, are you... crying?" 

  The bald student, Bossuet, looked away from Feuilly and at the ground. He tried to speak, but his voice broke, so he just pointed.

  "Joly," Feuilly said flatly, taking a moment to realize that the student, dead with his handkerchief in hand, was their friend. "Joly!" Feuilly turned to Bossuet. "Do you know how-?"

  "I tried to save him, I really did," Bossuet said, unashamed by his tears. "I tried to block him..." 

  It was then Feuilly noticed the blood staining the side of Bossuet's waistcoat. He, like others, had long since lost or discarded his overcoat. Feuilly fumbled with his pockets until he finally produced a handkerchief, which he quickly pressed against the wound.

  "Combeferre-"

  "Do not trouble him. It is not deep," Bossuet said. He laughed weakly and wiped his cheeks with his fist. "I am as bad as Prouvaire, crying this way. Where is Jehan, anyway? I haven't seen him..." 

  "I do not know," Feuilly said, having, like Bossuet, not heard that Jean Prouvaire had been executed. "We could ask Combeferre... and while there, he could look at that wound of yours."

  "Very well," Bossuet said, and took Feuilly's extended hand to pull himself to his feet. The pair had to pick their way through the dead and wounded lying on the ground, and after passing a man who had been shot through the head, Bossuet noted that Feuilly's face had taken on a distinct green tint. 

  Combeferre was easy to find, due to the shouts of pain coming from his general vicinity. Combeferre was crouching next to Courfeyrac, who was leaning as far away from the bespectacled student as he could as long as Combeferre had a fast hold on his arm. He had the handkerchief clenched between his teeth, and there was a mostly-empty brandy bottle on the ground, but he still cried out in pain.

  "Ah! You are going to kill me before these bullets do! Leave them there and get away from me, you monster! Joly! I want Joly! Surely he will be gentler than you!" 

  "That depends. Is a dead man gentler than a living one?" Combeferre asked, an almost vicious edge to his voice. "Now be still or I will leave these in and let you die slowly and painfully as your blood is turned to poison." 

  "Joly's dead?" Courfeyrac asked quietly. Combeferre didn't answer. Courfeyrac's brow furrowed slightly, then he let out a yelp as Combeferre began again his job of trying to extract the bullets from Courfeyrac's arm. 

 "Goodness, Combeferre, what are you doing to make him wail so?" Bossuet asked as he approached. Feuilly, who looked as though he was about to be ill, stumbled behind him.  

 "You are bleeding," Combeferre said, straightening and looking at Bossuet. Courfeyrac was hugging his arm to his chest, looking as though he wasn't about to let Combeferre near it any time soon.

  "It is nothing serious," Bossuet said hastily. "Surely there are others who..."

  "If another needs me more, I will go to them. But right now, none call me save you. You are just frightened."

 "And with good reason, you butcher," Courfeyrac grumbled. A slight smile flickered across Combeferre's lips. 

 "I haven't any more bandages," Combeferre said. "You will have to find something else. And when you do, bring it here, alright?" 

 "Very well," Courfeyrac said, getting to his feet. "My, Feuilly, you aren't looking well. Too much blood for you?"

 "A bit," Feuilly agreed weakly, then seemed to remember the other reason they had gone for Combeferre. "Combeferre, we are looking for Prouvaire. Have you seen him?" 

  Combeferre's face remained neutral, but both Courfeyrac and Feuilly could tell he was uncomfortable. He smoothed back his brown hair, then adjusted his spectacles, both things he was known to do when nervous. 

  Feuilly had a bad feeling about the situation. He'd always felt a special friendship with the little blond boy, though Feuilly was much older than Prouvaire and they came from vastly different backgrounds. Even in appearance they had been opposites, Feuilly was tall, dark-haired, and thin of face, while Prouvaire was tiny with blond curls and a round, boyish face. But both were artists, and both tried their best to see the world as a beautiful place, though Feuilly often suspected that Prouvaire did a much better job at it than he. Feuilly looked at Combeferre. 

 "Prouvaire-?"

 "Is dead," Combeferre said flatly. He bent over Bossuet, not wanting to see Feuilly's stricken expression. "He was captured and executed by the guard. We tried to trade the spy for him, but we were too late. He died bravely, I'm sure." There was a brisk, blunt edge to Combeferre's voice that alarmed Bossuet. Feuilly blinked, then took a step back, looking dazed.

  "A-ah. I am glad you told me, Combeferre," he looked around, then spied Enjolras standing near the barricade itself. "I will go, now. When you are finished, Bossuet, and perhaps we can... return home together." 

 Combeferre and Bossuet watched him go, neither trying to stop him.

  "He seems quite upset," Bossuet commented. Combeferre glanced up at where Feuilly had gone, then at the ground again.

  "He and Prouvaire were good friends. On that note, how are you doing?"

  "I am fine. The wound is not so bad."

  "You know that is not what I mean," Combeferre said, his level brown eyes meeting Bossuet's.

  "I have always had bad luck. I am used to bad things happening," his voice cracked. "But I am equally accustomed to having Joly there to help me through them." 

  "You knew when you came here that people were going to die," Combeferre said. Bossuet looked at him with pained eyes. 

  "I was told. Over and over again I was told. But I never thought it would happen. I never thought it would be us. Never thought it would be him." 

 "All or nothing," Combeferre said softly. "We thought our luck would hold as it had in past rebellions, and we would make it out alive. Or we thought we would all be killed. We never thought some of us would be left behind to cope with the loss." 

  "And you were the one who wanted a peaceful rebellion in the first place."

  "I know now there is no such thing." 

   Feuilly had wandered dazedly over to where Enjolras stood. Seeing him, Feuilly couldn't help but wonder how their golden-haired leader could stand so proud and unruffled, despite the death all around him. Perhaps it came from having led a successful rebellion. Feuilly hadn't realized that Enjolras had seen him until he spoke.

  "This is it. The beginning of a change," Enjolras turned and looked at Feuilly. As it always did, the intensity and ferocity of those blue eyes startled the fan maker. 

   "How do you know?" he asked. Feuilly had never talked back to Enjolras before, but now that it was all over, he felt it no longer mattered if he made the beautiful, golden demi-God angry. "How do you know anything is going to change? How do you know that Joly and Bahorel and Prouvaire are not dead for no reason at all?" 

  "Because we have made the people aware," Enjolras said calmly. "Aware of the problems around them. I never knew you were so passionate, Feuilly."

  "The death of your closest friends tends to make one such," Feuilly replied bitterly.

   "Those dead sacrificed their lives bravely for our cause and I am sure they have no regrets." 

  "How do you know? How do you know they would not rather be alive! How do you know they weren't supporting families and have now left them behind!?" 

  "Have you a family to support, Feuilly?" Enjolras asked. Feuilly started. No one had asked about his family before... the Friends of the ABC didn't generally ask about the families of their fellow Friends.

   "Yes." 

   Soon, people started to move slowly away from the barricade. Some carried dead friends or brothers on their backs, other dead were left to be robbed by the beggars and gamin that were starting to move in just for that purpose. Bossuet couldn't bear to touch Joly, but he did take everything of value on him to bring back to Musichetta. Then, both being bewildered and a bit upset, Bossuet and Feuilly walked home together, though neither knew where the other lived. They went to Joly's, where Bossuet was staying, first, simply because it was closer. 

   The apartment was in one of the nicer parts of town, and before Bossuet could even open the door it was flung open by a plump girl with glossy chestnut curls who promptly embraced Bossuet.

  "I heard about the insurrection, and, God, Olivier! You had me so worried!" the girl buried her face in Bossuet's shirt and wept, her arms still wrapped tightly about him. Bossuet gently patted her curls, staring straight forward rather than at her.

  "Shh, Musichetta. It is alright," he said. The girl, Musichetta, took a step backwards, wiping a tear off of her cheek with one pale hand. She looked up at Bossuet, then past him, to Feuilly.

  "Where-?" she broke off abruptly, seeing no one else behind him. "Oh, God. Oh, God, no!" 

  Her hands flew to her mouth, then her eyelashes fluttered and she fell back in a dead faint. Bossuet rushed forward to catch her. 

  "Who-?" Feuilly stepped inside to help Bossuet carry the fainted girl to the bed.

  "Musichetta," Bossuet responded. "She is... was... Joly's mistress. And, like everything else, I shared." 

   "She is one of many left alone by the barricades," Feuilly said somberly, looking at the round-cheeked girl. Bossuet glanced up at Feuilly, then stepped back from Musichetta. 

   "Let me bring you home," he said. "I think that... I think Musichetta would prefer to be alone when I... explain."  

  "I understand." 

   So Bossuet left Musichetta on the bed and stepped with Feuilly out into the street. Because he didn't know the way, Bossuet didn't do a very good job of leading Feuilly home, but he had wanted to buy himself a bit more time before having to explain how Joly had been killed and how he had obtained his own injury. 

  Bossuet had known, somehow, that Feuilly was an orphan, but he'd never really thought about it before. So he was surprised when Feuilly led him to one of the seedier parts of town, with more crime, more illness, dirtier streets, more dilapidated buildings, and cheaper rent. Bossuet sighed inwardly with relief whenever he and Feuilly passed a particularly awful building without stopping. The one they finally stopped at was one of the better ones in the area, but still enough to make Bossuet wince. 

   Feuilly led Bossuet to one of the apartments on the third floor, one of the few that didn't have anything carved into the door. Feuilly knocked gently on the door.

   "I did not bring my key because I did not expect to come back," Feuilly explained. "Hopefully my brother is not the only one home..." 

   "Why would he be home at all?" Bossuet asked. "Surely he works?"

   "No," Feuilly said flatly, and Bossuet left it at that.

   Feuilly knocked at the door again, a little louder, and this time it was flung open as four young girls, the oldest no more than twelve, spilled out, each tugging Feuilly's clothes and begging to know where he had been. Feuilly managed to shake them off and step inside, where he was promptly greeted by a girl of about fifteen. 

   "We heard about the fighting," she said by way of greeting, her voice as soft and gentle as Feuilly's usually was. "I was afraid that you were..." 

   Her eye fell on Bossuet. 

  "Is this one of your friends from the café?" she asked, then gave a polite curtsey to Bossuet. "I am Valerie." 

   "L'aigle, called Bossuet," he said, offering a nod in return. Feuilly laid a hand on the head of one of the smaller girls.

   "These are my other sisters. Germaine," he nodded to the oldest, "Etoile," he patted the head of the girl nearest him, the next oldest, "and the two little ones are Mardi and Coralie." 

   Feuilly's dark eyes flicked to the corner of the room. Bossuet followed his gaze to a chair, and in it, someone he hadn't noticed before. It was a boy, or more of a man, who looked to be just a couple years older than Feuilly. He was pale, like Feuilly, but the whiteness of his skin make him look sickly, while it added a bit of elegance to Feuilly's face. 

  "That is my brother, Augustin." 

   "A friend of yours, Pascal?" Augustin asked, a faint smile gracing his pale features. He looked past Bossuet with sightless, milky-white eyes and beckoned him over. Bossuet went, and knelt when Augustin reached up to him. He stiffened, but managed not to shy away as Augustin brought his hands, delicate and slender as Feuilly's, up to Bossuet's face and gently felt his features.

   "He smells of blood," Augustin said disapprovingly. "And gunpowder. You do, as well, Pascal." 

   "Now how would you know what gunpowder smells like?" Valerie teased, her voice light but her eyes worried. Augustin took his hands from Bossuet's face, and Bossuet quickly moved away.

   "I really... I really should be going, Feuilly," Bossuet said. "Musichetta..."

   "I understand," Feuilly said. Bossuet nodded and quietly left. 

     The evening with Musichetta was far from cheerful, and both spent most of it crying. As Bossuet lay in the dark alone, Musichetta having gone tearfully home, he couldn't help but think how odd it was to have the bed. Whenever he stayed over, Joly would drag out the extra blankets and make him sleep on the floor. Joly always had extra blankets, for one had to sweat out a fever. 

   It took Bossuet a long time to fall asleep, but when he finally did, it was far from peaceful. He was plagued by nightmares... not the sort where one can wake up and shake away the fear by saying it was only a dream, but the sort of nightmare that is real. He saw again and again himself lunging to try and push Joly out of the way, only to miss and fall to the ground. He heard Joly's sneeze suddenly turn into a gasp of pain, and he saw the look of shock and horror in his eyes as the bullet cut into his chest, then saw his best friend die instantly as another bullet entered his throat. He woke up sweating, his hands clapped over his mouth to suppress a scream.

     Combeferre didn't return home until late that night. He was exhausted, but he want purposefully over to his desk and took out a piece of paper, a bottle of ink, and a pen. Uncorking the ink and dipping the pen in, he began to write.

            _Dearest Mother, Louis, and Henrique, _

_   As you may or may not have heard already, there has been an insurrection of sorts here in __Paris__. Before you ask, I was involved, and before you worry, I am unhurt. I suppose I shall be facing the consequences of my actions soon enough, and I am well aware of that fact. I wish you to know that I did what I did believing in it wholeheartedly. I was forced by no one, and I will not try to escape whatever may come of what I've done. Many died in the insurrection, and you know as well as I that I may soon join them. Please, Mother, do not try and use your money, our family's money, to turn the police from my trail. It would give me no greater honor than to die for this Cause. _

_  Louis- Do not let this event turn you from following your dreams to __Paris__. It is a wonderful city, though perhaps you will find it as hard as I to turn a blind eye to the suffering around you. I wish for you to come here, so you might get an idea of what I fought for, and what I have risked myself for._

_  Henrique- Continue your studies, and worry not about the fate of your eldest brother. Do not grieve; just continue with your life. I beg you not to forget, either. I hope someday you too journey here, to __Paris__. Nothing would give me greater joy than to see my younger brothers continuing to fight for the Cause I began to fight for. I hope only you will find or become as great leaders as my Enjolras was. I hope you can be as dedicated as he at whatever you end up doing. But whatever that may be, remember I am beside you, whether I truly am, or whether I am in jail, or whether I am executed for my part in this insurrection. _

_                                Your Loving Brother,_

_                                                   Romaine Combeferre_

     Combeferre signed his name with an uncharacteristic flourish, then carefully folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and wrote out the address. Then he put it in the pocket of his coat. He would mail it later. 

     Getting to his feet, he went over to the bed and flopped down on it. He lied on his back, staring up at the long crack in the ceiling. He had left his home that day fully expecting to never return. Yet here he was, looking again on that crack that had always bothered him so. Yes, he lay here in bed once more. But so many didn't. Combeferre closed his eyes. He didn't want to think about that. He shouldn't feel guilty that be had happened to get lucky and live... but he did. He took off his spectacles and buried his face in his pillow. Surely he could deal with the guilt in the morning? But as he slipped into sleep he soon found that memories of those dead on the barricade could haunt his dreams, too. 


	2. Defending Friends

  Disclaimer: Cosette and Marius and the Friends of the ABC are Victor Hugo's. 

   Notes: Your reviews gave me warm fuzzy feelings. =3 Thanks so much. I don't like this chapter much, but meh. --; 

The first week following the barricades was an odd one for all involved. All except Enjolras and Grantaire. Grantaire drunk himself senseless as he usually did, and Enjolras went on planning and speaking. The Friends of the ABC had always joked that Enjolras was unfeeling, but they had never truly believed it until then. They heard that he had returned to the Café Musain almost the day after the barricades. The others were slower in coming. All in all, it was almost a month before the remaining Friends of the ABC again gathered at the Musain. 

    Courfeyrac, Feuilly noticed as he sat wordlessly, wasn't there. But all the others were. They sat silently, uncomfortably, in the little back room, each at his own table, trying not to meet the eyes of the others present.

    Combeferre sat with his back to the room, facing a wall. It was a position he normally hated, but things were no longer normal. The letter to his mother and brothers was still in his coat pocket. He had yet to send it. 

    "I do not understand," Enjolras said flatly, from his seat near the center of the room. Immediately, all eyes were on him. "Were not all of you aware that we risked ourselves going to fight? You all were aware that some would fall and some would not. You should feel fortunate that you live to fight another day."  

    "Oh, yes, I should feel oh so fortunate my friends are all dead and I am left alive to be hanged or imprisoned," Bossuet said, the sarcasm evident in his tone. 

    "And did you not know, going there, that that may happen?" Enjolras demanded, getting to his feet.

    "No!" Bossuet snapped in return, rising as well. "I expected to be killed. Killed by you and your- our... foolish dreams." 

    "They were not foolish dreams, and it would hurt the dead to hear you say such," Enjolras said coldly, his blue eyes hard. Bossuet seemed unfazed by the glare which had silenced so many men. 

     "They were foolish dreams. We will never make a difference. What have we shown the people? What have we done for them? We've gotten their men and boys killed, that is what we've done. And we have shown them that any who try and fight back will die."  

     "That is not-!" Enjolras cut himself off, distracted by a noise from the main room of the Musain. There were heavy footsteps, and they heard the high-pitched voice of one of the waitresses faintly through the door.

     "Please, Monsieur-!" they heard her plead, then she gasped, and they could only assume that she had been shoved aside. Combeferre got nervously to his feet just as the door swung open to reveal the police. 

    Feuilly rose then as well, so only Grantaire, passed out from drink, remained in his seat. The head of the group of policemen stepped into the room, glaring at the five students there. 

    "Gautier Enjolras?" he asked, and Enjolras straightened. "Olivier Laigle?" Bossuet nodded politely. "Pascal Feuilly?" The fan maker raised a slender hand. "Romaine Combeferre?" he asked, glancing from Grantaire to Combeferre, who gave a mock bow. The policeman narrowed his eyes.

    "Then... that's Isaak Grantaire?" he asked, gesturing to the inebriated man in the corner. Bossuet nodded stiffly. "Alright, then. Where is Gerard Courfeyrac?" he turned to Feuilly. "You. Where is he?"

    "I do not know," Feuilly said, quite honestly. The policeman obviously didn't believe him. He raised a large hand a smacked the boy across the face. Feuilly stumbled backwards slightly, looking quite shocked.

    "Where is he?" the policeman demanded.

    "I do not know!" Feuilly cried, helplessly. The policeman's face reddened.

     "Liar!" he bellowed, and aimed a kick at Feuilly which sent him to the floor. The other policemen looked alarmed.

      "Sir, weren't we supposed to-?" 

       "Quiet!" the first policeman snapped. "I'll get it out of him..."

        "Wait, wait!" Bossuet said quickly. The policeman's eyes snapped to him. "I would assume Courfeyrac is at his house." Bossuet quietly, embarrassedly, gave him the address, his cheeks burning red with shame at himself. But he had to do it to stop them from further hurting Feuilly. 

        "Get them," the first policeman said to the others, before stepping out of the room.

        "What about the other names, sir?" one asked. "Beauregard Joly and Jean Prouvaire..."

        "They're dead, fool," the first policeman snapped. "Now arrest the living ones! I'll go after Monsieur de Courfeyrac." He said the name in a sneering sort of way.  He turned on his heel and left the room and the other officers moved in. 

      "What did you do that for?" Feuilly asked Bossuet quietly as the policemen escorted them out of the café. 

      "I did not want them to hurt you..." Bossuet mumbled embarrassedly. "It was foolish."

       "Do not worry," Combeferre said as he was led past them. "They would have found him anyway."

     Not strangely, Bossuet didn't feel comforted. 

     The group was led to jail and put in one large cell, along with others credited with a part in the insurrection. Some protested loudly, while others sulked. Still others, like Feuilly, Combeferre, and Bossuet, just sat silently, quietly resigned to their fate. Only Enjolras seemed able to retain his pride. Grantaire had been hardly conscious when they put him in, but a few hours later, when he awoke, he started bellowing noisily and demanding to be let out. Needless to say, it didn't work. 

    Night had fallen and most of the cell's occupants had gone to sleep. Feuilly was awake, though, and so saw when the police opened the door and practically threw in a boy with curly red hair. Courfeyrac. 

    Feuilly could tell right away that something wasn't right with his friend. First of all, Courfeyrac hadn't protested being put in the cell at all, and, rather than looking around of greeting his friends, he was just... lying there. 

    "Courfeyrac," Feuilly whispered. No response. He tried again, louder, with the same results. He frowned.

     "Combeferre," Feuilly whispered, nudging his friend. Combeferre started, and his eyes shot open. He looked questioningly at Feuilly, who nodded at Courfeyrac. Combeferre frowned and crawled over. 

     "What is wrong?" Feuilly asked after Combeferre had had a moment to inspect Courfeyrac. Combeferre sat back and frowned.

      "The wound in his arm. It's gotten infected, I think. He's feverish." 

      "Will he be alright?"

      "I'm not sure..." 

       Feuilly wasn't quite sure when he fell asleep, but when he awoke light was doing its best to come in the cell's one, tiny window. Most of the others were awake as well, save Courfeyrac, slumped in a corner, his face flushed, and an older man with graying black hair. Feuilly saw that Combeferre was pacing restlessly, and he was surprised. He never saw Combeferre as the type to get nervous from being trapped in one place. He did, though, and when a guard walked past, he reached out to him.

    "Please, sir," Combeferre said. "What are we being held here until? How long will it be?"

    "You're here 'til the trial," the guard said gruffly. "Don't know how long it'll be." 

     Combeferre's eyes flicked down at the floor and only Grantaire, who had a keener eye than one might think, noticed his shoulders slump slightly.

    "I see. Thank you, Monsieur." 

    Things were moving so very quickly, Cosette was a little bewildered, even if she wasn't as dim as people thought she was. Naïve, yes, a bit. Stupid, no. And she was smart enough to know that it wasn't good for Marius to be jumping out of bed when he'd hardly had three weeks to recover from the wounds he received on the barricade. He was a little too weak to actually jump, but he climbed out, and was shuffling across the room despite Cosette's protests. 

   "Please, Marius," she begged, her hands clasped. "You're going to hurt yourself..."

   "It does not matter!" he insisted. "This is important!" 

   "Just tell me what is so important... surely someone could do it for you. Or you could it from bed... Marius, why are you going to the desk? Do you need a letter written? Dearest, let me write it and you may dictate. Please, get back into bed."

   "No! I must write it myself. They aren't going to want a lawyer with pretty cursive- with no offense intended, Cosette, it's just..."

  "Why does it matter what sort of lawyer they want? You aren't fit to practice any law for at least two more weeks!"

   "I haven't got two more weeks, though, I've got ten days."

   "Until _what?"_ Cosette cried, exasperated, flinging her arms out. Her ringlets bounced, and Marius blinked, then started hobbling slowly, painfully, back to the bed, paper, pen and ink in hand. 

   "The trial," Marius said slowly, crawling back into bed.

   "What trial?" Cosette asked, making her voice gentler. Marius pulled the stopper out of the ink and set it on the table beside the bed.

   "They're trying my friends from the barricade," Marius said simply. "And I am going to represent them."

   "Why did they choose you?" Cosette asked incredulously, then turned red. "Oh, oh I didn't mean it like that! I just meant... don't they know you were on the barricade as well?" 

  "They haven't chosen me," Marius said slowly. "I am going to volunteer. That is why I need to write them a letter." 

  "Ah. I understand now," Cosette said and smiled. "Just be careful, alright? Don't strain yourself." 

    "Thank you, Cosette," Marius said, smiling. Cosette waved away the thanks and quietly left the room.

    Marius wrote and sent the letter and received a response but two days later. He would be the official representative of his friends at the trial. The news worried and pleased Cosette. Pleased her because it made Marius happy, and he kissed her so enthusiastically when he found out the news. Worried because he would have to work hard prepare, and he was hardly well, and definitely needed to recuperate longer. But she could tell there would be no changing his mind. So Cosette supported him. It was, she supposed, practice for later in life. She was his wife-to-be after all, and she would have to support all of his endeavors. She could make sure he didn't hurt himself, though.

   Marius didn't have long to prepare for the trial. The judge didn't really care much about giving the students, whom everyone already knew were traitors and rebels, a fair trial, and didn't really care if Marius had enough time to get everything done well. So Marius had eight days. It wasn't enough time.

   Many nights, Cosette would wake in the early hours of the morning to find Marius still awake and working, sometimes furiously scribbling a letter, other times coming close to hurling the ink at the wall from frustration. That evening, only three days before the trial, Cosette peeked in and saw Marius sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall with his head in his hands. She rushed to his side, begging to know what the matter was. 

    "I can't _do_ this, Cosette," he said, not taking his hands from his face. She sunk to her knees beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.

    "Don't say that, Marius, of course you can," she said gently. 

     "I can't! I-... I mean... I should be there."  
     "Be where?" 

      "With them! I was at the barricade, too! I should be on trial with them... with my friends. It is as much Enjolras's doing as Courfeyrac's and as much theirs as mine. They're on trial and I should be with them!"

      "Don't say that, Marius!" Cosette said, horrified. "Whoever rescued you didn't do it so you could talk this way. Would you truly rather be facing death in a jail cell than here... with me?" 

      "Oh, God, Cosette, it isn't that I would not rather be with you. You know I would. I just feel... why should I be the one who is safe? I was as much of a leader as Enjolras was, yet he is the one facing trial. I feel guilty, Cosette. I should be by their side."

     "If you weren't here, who would defend them?" Cosette wanted to know. 

      "I don't know. I just know that letting them die at the hands of another lawyer who doesn't know them isn't as bad as betraying them this way."  

     "You aren't betraying them, you're defending them!" 

     "Yet it seems like I would serve better at their side." 


	3. Tried and Sentenced

    Disclaimer: Marius, Cosette, Musichetta, and the Friends of the ABC aren't my creations, they're Victor Hugo's. 

    Notes: Ooooh, goodness. Second-to-last chapter. And I'm really not sure if the sentences are accurate. If anyone knows and can correct me, I'll love you forever. I also love forever all who've reviewed. I want to do something for you guys. ;-; Um... could I... er... write something for you? I don't knooow! But thank you anyway. 

  This chapter took me forever to write. I didn't know what to do... I kept changing my mind. I do like Louis, though. ^^ Hee hee. 

     Life in the jail cell was far from exciting. Even the ones protesting most loudly their captivity had quieted after a few days. Feuilly, using a pin he found in his pocket, had begun boredly carving a bird on the wall. He dutifully added details, for he had a lot of time. Courfeyrac's condition worsened, and there was nothing Combeferre could do. He begged the guards for Courfeyrac to be taken to a doctor, but they didn't particularly care if the prisoner lived or died. 

    The dirty cell window provided scant light, only enough to tell when it was night and when it was day. Bossuet soon realized how easy it was to lose track of time, when he awoke one morning and couldn't recall how long he had been there. He tried his best to remember, but he simply couldn't. It had been six days ago when they'd brought Courfeyrac... or had it been only four? The day Feuilly started carving the wall... had that been two days ago or three? He frowned looking at the floor, trying to remember.

   "This one," he heard a guard say gruffly, and he looked up to see a guard leading someone to their cell. He blinked once, twice. The one with the guard... it looked like... 

    "Is that-?" 

    Combeferre was two steps ahead of him. He practically flew to the door, wrapping his hands around the bars. 

   "Pontmercy!" 

   Bossuet and Feuilly were at Combeferre's side in a flash. Feuilly noticed that Marius didn't look entirely well... his curls were pitch black against his skin, which looked china-white, except for a dark smudge beneath each eye. 

    "We thought that you were killed!" Bossuet said incredulously, looking Marius over from head to foot. 

    "Yet here I stand," Marius said, smiling weakly. He leaned slightly to the side, looking past the trio standing before him. His dark eyes fell on Grantaire, sulking in a corner, and Enjolras, who was looking at him with a gaze that seemed almost wary. Marius was a bit hurt by the cold greeting, but he didn't show it. He looked back at Combeferre, Bossuet, and Feuilly. 

     "And why do you stand here?" Combeferre asked. "Why risk being associated with rebels and sent to jail?" 

    "I am too deeply associated with you to ever think of backing away," Marius replied.

     "What do you mean?"

      "I'm your lawyer."

      "Pontmercy? Our lawyer?" Grantaire spoke up at last. "Then we will surely be hanged." 

       "Silence, capital R." Enjolras spoke up, as well. 

       "And what have you to say in our defense? The judge knows we are guilty. The people know we are guilty. We know we are guilty. And so do you." 

       Marius's face fell. If his friends didn't have any hope of being freed, they didn't need him to defend them. 

      "We appreciate it," Bossuet said, seeing his forlorn expression. "Truly we-"

       "No we don't," Grantaire interrupted. All eyes were suddenly on him. "Pontmercy just feels guilty. He is guilty that we were caught and he was not. And he is trying to make up for it... but, of course, staying a safe distance away. A lawyer, not a prisoner. He cherishes his freedom too much. More than us. More than our cause." 

     No one, especially Enjolras, missed that Grantaire had called them 'us' and 'our cause' rather than 'you' or 'yours.' But it didn't seem the appropriate time to comment. Grantaire, too, was perfectly aware of it. All those days had given him some time to think. If he was in jail for it, why not join the cause he was imprisoned for assisting? 

      Marius left the jail feeling disheartened. He had mumbled a goodbye, saying he'd see them in two days. That was when the trial was. And his strongest defense had never replied to his letter. That day, too, Cosette said upon his return that no letters had come for him. Marius sank wearily down into a chair. Cosette hurried to his side. 

     "What's wrong, Marius? Are your friends well?" she asked, wringing her hands worriedly. After this, she vowed, she would make sure that Marius didn't know personally anyone he represented. It was too stressful. 

      "As well as one in jail can be, I suppose," Marius said dully. Cosette pressed her hands against her breast. It broke her heart to see him like this. His eyes were so flat, and he was so pale. He wasn't supposed to be that pale. It wasn't good for him to be working so hard, especially when he was just barely healed. But she couldn't stop him, even if he was torturing himself. She couldn't stop him. He was like her father, in that aspect. 

     Another way he was like her father was the huge part of him that she didn't know. She hadn't know that he was one of the rebel students until he had shown up at her door, unconscious and bleeding, from the barricade. And she still didn't know. Who were these men that he had fought with? What were they like? Did they have wives or wives-to-be weeping because they were locked away? In that, Cosette supposed, she was fortunate. Marius might be making himself ill and upsetting her, but at least he was free. And at least he was alive. 

     Cosette set a gentle hand on Marius's shoulder. He smiled wearily up at her hand put his hand over hers. She was startled by the coldness of his hand, but she said nothing and simply smiled in return. 

     "When this is over, Cosette," Marius said, taking her hand and pulling her closer. "When it's over, things can be normal. We can be wed and it won't be like this."

    "Good," she said, smiling. "I'm glad." 

      Marius released her hand and she went to her room, feeling mostly happy. Except for one little part of her that wasn't content with the future. It was still worried about the here and now. 

      The sun had hardly risen when Cosette awoke. It had been two days since her talk with Marius and, still bleary-eyed, she had the feeling something important was happening that day. But she couldn't recall what. But she neatly brushed out her curls and styled them in a way that particularly flattered her, for if something important was happening, she wanted to look nice. It wasn't until after she had put on her nicest dress that she remembered. Today was the trial. 

     Cosette hurried in her dressing and was heading to her door when it opened, revealing Marius. 

     "Oh!" he stepped back. "I had been hoping you hadn't dressed yet. I just wanted to tell you that... you don't have to come. I mean, if you don't wish. Trials are such dull things, I wouldn't wish you to attend something you would find tiresome..."

    "What is the matter?" Cosette asked. Marius only babbled when he was upset. Marius sighed.

     "I just... I'm afraid, Cosette. I don't want you to be there to see if I lose. I don't want you to see... them."

     "Why on earth not?"

     "I'm just afraid it will upset you." 

      But Cosette insisted. She could, Marius learned that day, be quiet stubborn when it suited her. And so the pair arrived at the courthouse. Cosette took a seat with all the other spectators, gossiping about whether the rebels would be hung or perhaps have their hands cut off. The mere thought made Cosette turn green. Surely they wouldn't...? Marius would be crushed if they did. 

    Marius and Cosette had arrived early, so Cosette had a while to wait before the actual trial started. She didn't let herself get bored, though. She thought about all the things she'd been meaning to think about, but hadn't gotten around to. Things such as what to name a girl baby and what to name a boy. She wondered if Marius would protest naming a boy Jean. She thought about what to get Marius for his birthday. She was just thinking about what color rug might be best to put in a baby's room when the defendants were led in, followed by Marius. When she saw them, Cosette turned white.

    Marius had told her she may be upset, and now she saw why. They were merely boys! They were all scarcely older than Marius, and all looked awfully pale and underfed. The only one who looked at all healthy was the noble looking blond, who –though she hated to admit it- left Cosette breathless. He was a breathtaking sort of person, though, and he looked high born. Cosette wondered why he felt the need to become a rebel. 

    The judge entered then, breaking off Cosette's train of thought as she rose. When the court seated itself again, the judge started reading off the names. He paused when he reached Gerard Courfeyrac. He looked at the group of rebels, then back down at his list.

     "Where is Gerard Courfeyrac?" he demanded. The thin boy with brown hair and glasses, who Cosette recalled was called Combeferre, tentatively raised a hand. The judge nodded to him. 

      "If I may, your honor," he said. "Gerard Courfeyrac died of a fever last night. The guards in the prison wouldn't permit him to be taken to a doctor." 

       Marius looked stricken, Cosette saw. That only served to increase the sick feeling in her stomach... and in her heart. The judge cleared his throat, hushing the whispers of the spectators, and the trial began. 

       All in all, Cosette found it very tiresome, but she forced herself to stay awake. It would upset Marius if she were to doze off. But that didn't stop her mind for wandering. She snapped to attention, though, when the students were called to the stand. The poor boys had nothing to say in their defense. They would surely be hanged, and the mere thought was enough to almost make Cosette weep. She was surprised to see that the noble blond boy, the one called Enjolras, didn't even attempt to defend himself. He admitted to his rebellious actions with something that seemed like pride. The bald boy half-heartedly defended himself, but gave up about part-way through the questioning. The bespectacled boy who had spoken up at the start of the trial defended himself the best of any. He managed to twist his questioners' words, answering nothing. After he seated himself again, a small group silently entered the courtroom and seated themselves at the back. No one but Cosette seemed to notice. 

     About half-way in, the judge said to Marius, "Have you any witnesses to bring forward?"

     All eyes, including Cosette's, went to Marius. She saw him swallow, and glance about. And she suddenly remembered the letter that he had so anxiously awaited in the days before the trial. The letter that had never come. What if...? 

    "I will serve witness for the defense." 

     All eyes shot to the back of the courtroom, where a young man now stood. From where he had been sitting, Cosette could tell that he was part of that group which had come in late. She glanced over and saw that Marius's eyes were wide as the young man strode to the front of the courtroom. As he passed the students, the one called Combeferre grabbed the young man's sleeve.

     "Louis!" he hissed, so softly that none but Louis could hear. "What are you doing here?" 

     "Surely I wouldn't let my only elder brother be hanged?" he said this loudly, and all heard him say it. Now that it was mentioned, Cosette noticed a distinct resemblance between the two. They had the same eyes and hair, and manner of carrying themselves. The young man seated himself at the front of the room.

     "P-please state your name for the court," Marius said, taking a moment to steady his voice. 

      "Louis Combeferre," he said confidently. He sat with a straight back, his eyes forward. 

      "Could you please tell the court about your older brother, Romaine Combeferre?"

       "Certainly," Louis said, a crooked sort of grin on his face. "My brother and I are from a wealthy family. We were both given the best of upbringings and the finest schoolings. My brother went to Paris to attend school there. He was sent money monthly, and surely wanted for nothing. What reason would my brother have to fight for something as foolish as the rights of the poor? Surely if the poor could simply work a full day without spending all their money on drink, they would no longer be poor." 

     Enjolras was livid, but Combeferre laid a hand on his arm. He understood where Louis was going. 

      "It truly makes no sense to presume that Romaine, or any of these other gentlemen- hello, Olivier, how are you?- (At this Bossuet gave a half-smile and a little wave to Louis, whom he had never met in his life) would be as involved in something as foolish as a rebellion against this fine city of Paris and this fine country of France. If you believe that you saw any of them there, you truly need to look into a fine pair of spectacles. And even were it them, I'm sure that they did not go there of their own free will." 

      "Ahh... thank you, Monsieur Combeferre," said Marius after the prosecution had made it clear they had no questions. The relief was evident in Marius's voice. "You may step down." 

     "Oh, God," a plump, chestnut-curled girl sitting next to Cosette gasped. "Perhaps they won't be hanged after all!" 

      "One can only hope!" Cosette agreed, and the two girls clasped hands. 

       With Louis's testimony, the whole court had burst into excited chatter. The judge slammed down his gavel, and when he finally had the people's attention, he announced there would be a short recess, after which the verdict would be announced. Cosette and the girl beside her rose together, looking at one another for the first time. 

     "What is your name?" Cosette inquired, feeling rather foolish not even knowing the girl's name.

     "Musichetta," was the girl's response, and Cosette introduced herself, as well, using Marius's last name. Just to get into the habit.

      "Oh, goodness! You're the lawyer's wife!" the girl's round cheeks flushed with joy. "I simply must introduce you to Olivier, then. He's like to meet you. Sooner, rather than later, simply because... oh...well, goodness, I just have to say it, don't I? He just may not be around later." 

      "Whatever do you mean?" Cosette asked. 

       "Oh, goodness... Olivier Bossuet. One of the students being tried. I refuse to call them rebels. I do. I do not feel they were rebels at all, I feel they were doing just the right thing! And seeing their friends, God rest them, killed before their eyes... is that not punishment enough for any person?" 

      "I agree, I agree!" Cosette said, laying a hand over her heart. "I do! And poor Marius has worked so hard. He wants so desperately... oh, I fear he would just die were they to be sentenced to death." 

       "Just do not say it! Saying it makes it too real. I always thought that. Now, I suppose, I realize it is not true. Never once in those two horrid, horrid days did I let myself say there was a chance one of them might be killed, yet..." tears filled Musichetta's eyes and Cosette quickly handed her a handkerchief. Musichetta took it and dabbed at her eyes, smiling weakly at Cosette.

       "We've not much longer to wait," Cosette said gently. That proved quite true, for just that moment the people were ordered to reseat themselves. They did so, and the judge re-entered and seated himself. Cosette was breathless, as the entire court seemed to be. The judge looks solemn.

     "Would Romaine Combeferre please step forward?" The student did so. He walked with a straight back and his head held high, but even Cosette could see how tense he was.

     "The court finds you, Romaine Combeferre...innocent." 

      Combeferre and Marius looked equally shocked, and Cosette relaxed the slightest bit. She glanced over and saw that Musichetta was still on edge. She had practically tied the handkerchief she held into knots. Combeferre stumbled over to his brother in a sort of a daze. The judge cleared his throat.

      "Olivier Bossuet, please step forward." The bald-headed student did so. Cosette saw his hands trembling, though his face was relatively calm. Musichetta's hands were to her cheeks, pressing so hard that Cosette was sure she'd leave marks. 

      "Olivier Bossuet, the court finds you innocent," the judge said quickly. Musichetta let out a cry, then fainted. Bossuet looked in her direction- as did most of the court- and saw her for the first time. Cosette had whipped out her fan and was frantically fanning the fallen girl. When Musichetta gradually returned to her senses, the court calmed down. As she and Musichetta resettled themselves, Cosette was horrified to hear someone behind her whisper about how disappointed they were that, so far, none of the students would hang. Cosette longed to whirl around and snap back a smart retort, but it wouldn't be proper. Pascal Feuilly was the next name called. 

     "The court finds Pascal Feuilly guilty. He is sentenced to four years in jail." 

     "Poor dear!" Musichetta said, one hand on her heart. "They had to sentence someone, and he's an orphan... no influential family to get angry. Who better than him?" she spoke calmly, but her face was a livid shade of red. 

     Feuilly made no attempt to mask the shaking of his pale, slender hands, and when he reseated himself, he buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, and Cosette couldn't tell if it was because he was frightened or because the boy was crying. 

    "Isaak Grantaire, please step forward," the judge said. The student, who even kind-hearted Cosette found quite unattractive, did as he was bid. He stood nonchalantly before the judge, the only student so far to betray no fear. He did break his casual mask, though, when his verdict was announced. He scowled at having been found innocent. 

     The last one the judge called forth was Gautier Enjolras. He walked proudly forward, his shoulders thrown back and his chin in the air. 

    "The court finds you, Gautier Enjolras..." the judge paused, and cleared his throat. The whole court held their breath. "...guilty. You are sentenced to be hanged until dead." 

    No one said anything. Enjolras maintained his composed and confident posture, but all of the color left his face.  


	4. Hanging Angels

Standard disclaimers apply.

Notes: Last chapter! I kind of go off randomly on things that aren't really important. Sorry. ; So I suppose if you want, you can go ahead and skip everything from when the court is adjourned to when I start talking about the execution. B-but... you all wouldn't really do that... would you?

  Also, I want to plug my new webpage, on which you can find all of my fics. It should be in my profile.   As of yet, there's nothing special, but I'll put some special thingies up soon. I promise. So go look. It'll make me happy.

   "Hang me, as well!"

     Grantaire's voice rang through the silent courtroom, and all eyes were instantly on him. Even the judge looked taken aback. What was he supposed to say to that?

     "P-pardon?"

     "Hang me as well!" Grantaire repeated. "I am as much a part of the revolution as he!"

      "V-v-very well..."the judge said uncertainly. Surely if the boy _wished_ to be hanged, he wasn't one to stop him. And the Lord knew that it would do the city no harm to be rid of one more rebellious student... it would please the people as well, for they always liked a hanging. "Very well," the judge repeated. "If you wish to throw your life away alongside this rebel, do so."

      So, Grantaire was led out along with Enjolras. The judge banged his gavel and announced that court was adjourned. Cosette rose from her seat and rushed to Marius, embracing him without a care of what anyone else in the room might think. Musichetta rose with her, but didn't go straight to Bossuet, pausing to watch him for a moment instead.

     Feuilly was hunched over, face in hands, now quite clearly sobbing. Bossuet hovered nervously around him, then put a tentative hand on the other boy's shoulder. Feuilly fell into him, wrapping his fists in Bossuet's shirt like a child clinging to his mother's skirts for comfort.

     "Poor dear," Musichetta murmured, going over to the pair. Marius and Cosette headed over, too, Cosette gently stroking Feuilly's hair until he moved from Bossuet and wept into her instead. Bossuet explained Feuilly's situation to Marius in a low voice, but Cosette caught phrases- such as "four younger sisters" and "invalid brother"- that made her wrap her arms more tightly around the poor orphan fan maker.

    "Do not worry, Pascal," Cosette said gently, for she didn't really care for the formality of calling people by their last names. She didn't find it very comforting.       

    "Marius and I will help your family until you return. Hush, hush, and don't cry. I know, I know they're going to come get you soon... would you like Marius or me to come along?"

   "N-no," he said, straightening and wiping his eyes. "I'll be alright. Thank you, Mademoiselle...?" He trailed off, unable to recall what her name was, if he'd ever known it.

    "Just call me Cosette."

   Combeferre stood closer to the back of the room, his brother Louis at his side. The two had been joined by a smaller boy, clearly another brother for he and Combeferre's faces were identical. He was at least a foot shorter, though, and had a mass of auburn curls a bit like Courfeyrac's had been while Combeferre's hair was thin, straight, and brown. Combeferre and Louis were talking, and the younger boy was trying eagerly to cut in, though he had no idea what they were talking about.

    As Louis talked, Combeferre didn't really listen. He watched over his brother's shoulder as the dark haired girl in the black dress comforted Feuilly, then watched as he was led away. It truly wasn't fair. But he couldn't complain. He could have stood up with Grantaire and demanded to be hanged or imprisoned as well, but he hadn't. He wasn't brave enough. How ironic, that Grantaire would turn out to be the bravest of all of them.

     The crowd was starting to disperse. Marius, Cosette on his arm, went over to Combeferre. Combeferre half-listened to him talk, nodding distractedly. He couldn't keep back a wry grin as Marius's demure-faced, brown-curled fiancé stuck out her tiny foot to trip a man who was talking loudly about how he'd have to be sure to go watch the hanging. The man stumbled and looked angrily over his shoulder, but Cosette had already drawn her foot back in and was standing politely at Marius's side, her eyes turned modestly down. Marius couldn't have picked a better girl.

    "We are invited to the wedding, yes?" Musichetta asked as she and Bossuet passed. She was holding his hand tightly and would every so often touch his arm, as if to make sure he was really there.  

     "Of course!" Cosette said, clasping her hands delightedly. She glanced up at Marius, as if to confirm, and at his small nod, beamed at Musichetta and Bossuet. Musichetta returned the smile, but Bossuet couldn't quite manage it. The pair took their leave.

    "Poor Marius hasn't slept at all for more than a week," Cosette said apologetically to Combeferre and Louis. "We must get home. Will you be in Paris long, M'sieur Combeferre? We must have them for dinner, Marius."

    Louis laughed and Cosette smiled with satisfaction. This was just what being Marius's wife would be like, and she was enjoying every instant of it. Oh, to hold his arm without shame, to call them 'us' and 'we', as though they were one rather than two. She clung tightly to Marius's arm as they left the courthouse and stepped into the carriage, waving to the three Combeferre boys. When they were out of sight, she sat back, leaning her head against Marius's shoulder.

    "I think you did wonderfully," she said, smiling up at him.

    "If I had done so wonderfully, they all would be free," Marius said flatly. Cosette bit her lip.

     "I think you did well... M'sieur Combeferre and..."

      "Yes, and what of Feuilly and Enjolras and Grantaire?" Marius snapped. Cosette sat up quickly. "The goal is to get everyone off, not just a few of them. Not just those who have rich brothers who can conveniently testify and happen to be exquisite liars."

     "I-I'm sorry," Cosette said softly, her lower lip starting to tremble. Oh, how childish! She just couldn't bare the embarrassment if she were to start crying before Marius. But then again... shouldn't she make him apologize? Papa always said one ought be honest and if she were to lie about being upset... and in a book she'd once read, the lady always cried prettily when she didn't get her way, and then the men always gave it. Sure, it was just a silly book, but...

   Marius stiffened, then looked with alarm at his bride-to-be as she burst into noisy tears. Marius fumbled in his pocket until he managed to produce his handkerchief, which he handed to Cosette.

    "I'm sorry, dearest, I didn't mean... I didn't mean to speak sharply to you..."

    Cosette sniffed and dabbed at her eyes, straightening her back and saying nothing. Marius looked at Cosette with pained eyes, but she refused to look at him. This was truly not his day. He lost, and now Cosette was angry at him... she was lucky. She was a girl. She could cry and no one would think less of her. He, being a boy, could never do that.

     Cosette glanced out of the corner of her eye at Marius. He looked so forlorn, scooted as far from her as he could, his shoulders hunched, glaring at the ground. She bit her lip, then scooted over to him and lay her head on his shoulder.

    "I forgive you, Marius," she said, smiling. Now she knew what those girls meant when they said that the wife was truly the master of the house.

     "Musi, I have to stop somewhere before we go home," Bossuet said. The pair was walking, lacking a carriage. Musichetta nodded.

     "Alright. I'll go with you."

     "No, you won't..."

     "I didn't ask your opinion," Musichetta said, laying a hand on his arm. "I'm going."

      So Musichetta followed Bossuet as he led her into a part of town she'd been to a few times, though she didn't tell Bossuet that. It was in her worse days, before she'd met him and Joly. She wordlessly accompanied him into a building and up the stairs, and stood behind him with her hands politely folded as he stopped and knocked on a door.

     "Pascaaal!" the door was flung open by a little girl with dark curls who rushed into the hall and flung her arms around Bossuet's legs. Then she blinked and backed warily away as she realized that it wasn't Pascal at all. She stood in the doorway; her little hands planted firmly, one on each side of the doorway, barring the way. Three other little dark-haired girls rushed to the door as well, then stopped as they saw Bossuet and Musichetta.

    "Where's Pascal?" one of the youngest demanded, her tiny, dark brown furrowed.

     "Who is there, Etoile?" an older girl called from inside.

     "A bald man and a lady," the one blocking the doorway, Etoile, said cautiously. The older girl came to the doorway as well, and looked startled when she saw Bossuet.

     "Oh! Monsieur... L'aigle, yes?"

      "Mademoiselle Valerie," he said, partly as greeting and partly to let Musichetta know who this was.

      "Well, come in, come in! Whatever brings you here? Etoile, let him through."

       "No," the girl said stubbornly. "I don't like him."

       "Etoile!" Valerie gasped, horrified. "Step out of the way this instant! You will not speak to Pascal's friends that way!"

      Etoile gave Bossuet a dark look- one he found surprisingly evil for a girl who couldn't be over ten years old- then crossed her arms and stormed out of the doorway. Valerie looked apologetically to Bossuet as she shooed the other three out of the way.

     "Don't mind Etoile, she's only been acting this way since an hour or so ago."

      "O-Oh..." Bossuet said. An hour or so... that was when Feuilly had been convicted. Could the little girl somehow know? He stepped inside, motioning for Musichetta to follow.

    "This is Musichetta," Bossuet said, gesturing to her. "Musi, that's Valerie, and the little ones are...er..."

    "Elise, Mardi, and Coralie... and you met Etoile," Valerie said, her tone again apologetic at the last name. She turned to Bossuet. "Pascal isn't in... though you know that. But oh... you've been freed... where is Pascal?"

    "Pascal... oh! Is that the poor boy they... Monsieur Feuilly?" Musichetta asked, her hand flying to her mouth. What scant color she'd had left Valerie's face and she clasped her hands together, her dark eyes wide.

   "What has happened? Where is he?"

    Bossuet leaned his head close to Valerie's and spoke in a low voice, so that even Musichetta couldn't hear what he said. Valerie obviously could, though, for when Bossuet finished she stumbled backwards, her hands clenched in her skirt. She groped behind herself for a chair but finding none sat heavily on the floor.

    "Oh! Sister, are you alright?" the girl called Elise asked. She was the next oldest girl, after Valerie, but she was only about twelve. Valerie smiled faintly.

    "Yes, yes... fine... come help me up, I just tripped..."

    "Where is Pascal?" Elise inquired as she helped Valerie to her feet. "He hasn't... I heard you and Augustin talking. You said Pascal was in trouble. He isn't in trouble, is he?"

    "Of course not, dearest," Valerie cooed, and Bossuet admired her acting talents. "He just has to go away for a bit... he's found a- a job, you see, and he has to go away, but not for very long..."

    "Oh, no!" Elise cried. "No, no, he can't!"

    "Come, come, Elise, it's for the better... think, you'll be able to have pretty dresses..."

    "Pretty dresses?" the one called Mardi asked, cocking her head to the side. Her own dress had had three previous owners and it showed. She was immediately attentive to any conversation involving something pretty. "When?"

    "Come, come, girls!" Valerie laughed as three little dark heads clustered around her, tugging her skirts and asking her questions. "I'll tell all in a moment! I must ask speak to Augustin first, so move along. I'm sure Madame L'aigle would love to play with you."

    Musichetta and Bossuet's cheeks reddened at being taken for husband and wife, but the three little girls didn't seem to notice as they hurried to Musichetta and began tugging her skirts and bombarding her with questions. Musichetta absently ruffled the curls of one of the little girls, but her eyes were following Valerie as she strode across the room to a boy whom she hadn't even noticed at first.

    "Oh, Olivier," Musichetta whispered, having gotten the little girls distracted by removing her hat and letting them marvel over it. "They're so poor. Whatever are they going to do?"

    "I don't..."

    "We must help somehow! And Madame Cosette- M'sieur Pontmercy's wife, don't you know- she would help, I just know it... oh, come, he's a lawyer, he's rich, and goodness knows you and I haven't any money."

    "I'm not sure that they'd wish for-"

    "Don't be a fool, Olivier. Mam'selle Valerie can say it's the money M'sieur Feuilly sent, if she doesn't wish the little ones to know, they don't have to."

     "I'm still not-"

     "Oh, hush. You don't know what you're talking about."

    The execution was scheduled for only three days after the trial. They wanted to make it as soon as possible, to give no time for the 'dangerous rebels' to escape. Marius tried in vain to forbid Cosette's coming, but she insisted that she had to be there to support him. Marius was grateful for her presence, though he could never ever admit it.

    Cosette was horrified at the size of the crowd that had gathered. What pleasure did these people have in watching a poor boy hang? Little barefooted gamin shoved through the crowd to get as close as they could. Looking at them, Marius wondered if, had he lived, Gavroche would have been among them. He absently patted Cosette's hand, which rested on his arm. He'd been in a daze since he'd woken up that morning, and the whole day had a surreal, dream-like quality to it. Surely Enjolras wasn't just now being led up to the gallows, Grantaire behind him. He felt Cosette's hand tighten on his arm, but even that had a dull, faraway feel. It was as though he was just watching it happen from someplace very far away. He was only watching, he wasn't truly there as Grantaire first stepped forward and the hangman placed the noose about his neck. Cosette's scream as he stepped off of the platform was muted. But then he heard the crack. It was scarcely audible, but it was enough to rip him viciously from his dreamy state and plunge him into reality. The crack as the rope went taut and Grantaire's neck snapped.   

    "Oh, God, Marius," Cosette gasped and hid her face in his coat. He put his hand on the back of her head and pressed it firmly against him, hoping she wouldn't feel that his heart was going as fast as a rabbit's.

    As Enjolras was lead up, three girls leaned their heads together and whispered to each other. Cosette leaned slightly towards them, wanting to know what they were saying. If it was something bad, she told herself, well, she would not stand for that. Then she heard something like "such a fair face" and paid the girls no more mind. She looked hesitantly back to the platform and saw the rope being slipped over Enjolras's neck. He stood so straight and looked so proud... to Cosette, he looked no different from when in the court room, and to Marius no different from when he was on the barricade, or in the café.

   He took a step forward, then another and he was balancing right on the edge. Cosette felt Marius's hand on her shoulder tighten. She glanced back at him, pale-faced and tight-lipped, then looked forward once more and saw that Enjolras was looking at them. His eyes were so blue, she thought, a pretty, clear blue. Not dark, grey-blue like hers. The two shades of blue met, then the contact was abruptly broken. The hangman had grown impatient and had pushed Enjolras off. Cosette cried out and only then realized that she had been holding her breath.

   Marius made no sound, but tightened his hand even more on Cosette's shoulder. Enjolras truly did look, to him, like some sort of God or angel. The sunlight danced on his golden curls as they swung slightly, still caught in the momentum of being pushed. Angels, Cosette thought, were not made to dangle on the ends of nooses.


End file.
